Skipping Stones
by Inferior Madness
Summary: Lyle Melville was a normal, halfblooded wizard from two muggle-infatuated parents. That was, of course, until he met Dudley Dursley's cousin. Can the influence of one person really change the course of prophecy?
1. The Boy Who Lived

A/N: This story closely follows the book, so expect to see the same sorts of paragraphs, conversation, etc.

WARNING: none, right now.

DISCLAIMER: All the characters, but the Melvilles, and the Harry Potter world belong to J.K. Rowling.

Chapter One

The Boy Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Melville, of number twenty-six, Wisteria Walk, were very proud to say that they were not perfectly normal. Actually, they were further from normal than most of their neighbors assumed. They were the couple that were more than pleasant; they were _friendly_. They were nice to people, started conversations and laughed very easily. They were warm and inviting and enjoyed hosting parties with their children's friends and their friends, and just having a good time together.

Mr. Melville was the owner of a small advertizing company called Paradigm Marketing, mostly specializing in computer generated ads for anything from toothpaste to t-shirts. He was a short, thin man with a large nose and small, bright blue eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses. His hair was short and thick, a mousy brown color, and his lips were always cracked when he smiled, which was often. Mrs. Melville was taller, and plumper than her husband, but not obese by any measure. She had curves which followed to her hair, curled dark and long to her back, usually held back in a tie of some sort. Her eyes were wide and brown, and her ears were slightly large, keen for conversation, but hardly ever gossip. The Melvilles had four children, two boys and two girls. The oldest was named Gillian, the second oldest was Clyde, the third was Annabel, then, finally, little Lyle.

The Melvilles were a happy, loving family with most of what they wanted. Sure, Mrs. Melville complained about the neighbors ever so often, and wished she had a nice, larger home in the country, so her children would stop bickering in their rooms, but she and her family were content. Unbeknownst to their neighbors, however, the Melvilles had a very deep secret that they did not share with the people around them. There was no shame of it, but it was simply _illegal _for the neighbors to find out about their blood. The Melvilles were a magical family. Mr. Melville was a halfblooded wizard who had fallen in love with muggle ways since he was very small, and Mrs. Melville was a pureblood, born in Canada to a Mrs. and Mr. Tucker, and married Mr. Melville when she was eighteen years old, visiting her grandmother in England. They delved into the muggle world as much as the magical. The children went to muggle primary school before Hogwarts, and they told the neighbors it was an elite boarding school in Scotland that the father had graduated from, giving them an almost immediate go ahead.

When Mr. and Mrs. Melville woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday morning our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside that suggested anything out of the ordinary to the muggles around them. However, they knew from the former night's events, that it was anything but normal. Mr. Melville had taken the day off work, a personal day as he explained it, and dressed casually with a nice sweater and trousers, putting on sneakers as he always did, just in case he wanted to take a walk, and Mrs. Melville chatted at him excitedly as she waited for the children to come down for a nice breakfast of waffles and bacon and eggs.

She opened the window to let a large, tawny owl flutter inside, hopefully unbeknownst to the neighbors around them, to get a letter from her sister-in-law, news she already knew.

At a quarter passed eight, the kids were awake. Lyle was in his high chair, nibbling at bits of cut up waffles that his mother stuck onto the tray, while his father helped his three year old sister cut up her own. Clyde, five at the time, was finishing up homework that he didn't have to turn in until Thursday, and Gillian was reading, until her mother took away the book. No reading at the table until the food is gone. She was seven at the time.

The kids would stay home from primary school this Tuesday. Mrs. Melville had called the school and reported them to be sick, to keep them home and celebrate a very special day. Today was the first day without the menacing Dark Lord looming over their lives, threatening their wellbeing. This was the best day that the family had ever experienced, although the children were too young to fully understand. Of all of them, Gillian was the oldest, and was trying to understand properly. All she knew was that a child no older than her little brother Lyle, had defeated the Dark Lord, whose name was not to be spoken in their house. Why, she wasn't sure. A name was a name. But she did suppose 'Voldemort' sounded much more frightening than 'Bobbie'.

After breakfast, the children broke away to go play. Gillian went to read in her room, complaining about Clyde and Annabel making too much noise, as they screamed and chased each other, one claiming to be the Boy-Who-Lived, the other, the Dark Lord, entertaining themselves with the story much more than the parents expected. As per usual for days after breakfast, though this day with Mr. Melville at home, she left him in charge, instead of Gillian, as she changed her little Lyle then put him in a stroller to take him outside. She enjoyed her time with her little ginger baby, and he enjoyed them as well. He cooed and grabbed at passing trees, and the neighborhood ladies would gush and chat with Mrs. Melville, always with pleasant smiles, some less proper than others. On this day, she was only stopped occasionally to chat as she rerouted toward the right, to Privet Drive instead of the park. She'd go through and circle the cul de sac, and return home, instead of taking time on the swings. A short walk, really.

She noticed from the corner of her eye, a cat reading a map, but did not pay too much attention to it, as a woman stopped her to talk again. The woman, a Mrs. Thompson, was a nice woman, but far more into gossip than Mrs. Melville enjoyed. Still, she smiled and nodded, and discussed what she said was 'odd behavior' from some neighbors around her.

"Three trash bags, could you believe! _Three_! What on earth could they be doing that would warrant so much waste, I have no idea. But I haven't seen their pesky cat around lately."

"I'm sure they're just cleaning the attic, Gloria."

"Cleaning the attic? In November? Very odd, don't you think?"

Luckily, Lyle began to fuss, which gave Mrs. Melville an excuse to keep on moving. "He likes the motion." She explained, and waved as she stepped away, relaxing when she was at a safe distance and rolling her eyes. She cooed at her son what an annoying busy-body that woman was, yes she was. Lyle replied with gibberish that no one could understand, but he was pretty certain of himself, so she just smiled and continued on her walk.

On her way, she had to pause to allow the man of one Number Four to back out from the drive way. She gave a wave, but he didn't seem to notice, and just went on her way. Of course, from what she heard about the family, she wasn't too surprised. They were a pleasant couple, the family from number four. They were fixated on impressing others and being pleasant, big on impressions. Mrs. Melville had no interest in hosting parties for strangers just to look rich or well-maintained, or pleasant. She hosted parties with friends, so they could chat and laugh and enjoy each other, instead of tying so hard and making everything so stale and stiff. Still, she gave Mrs. number four a wave as she passed by the quaint home. She didn't want to be rude, after all.

As she knew, the family on number four had a small child as well, a boy around Lyle's age. She had seen the child before. He was chubby and had very doting parents, perhaps a little too doting. With what she knew about the parents, she had little doubt the child would grow very spoiled if they did not have more children to dote on. Children were less spoiled with siblings, as she saw it. Still, the child was adorable. Very chubby, taking after his father, most obviously. That man hardly even had a neck, and if he got any larger, she had the suspicion that he would have his own orbit. That was a rude thing to think, and she didn't express it, but she didn't see why the man didn't take care of himself better. Mrs. number four, however, was exactly the opposite. She needed to eat more. She was far too thin, but Mrs. Melville was sure that long neck of her's was perfect for spying on the neighbors over her fence.

Like the muggles around her, it was hard not to notice owls swooping around the skies. It was even harder not to notice that they were doing so during the _day_, which was generally not a usual thing for muggles to see. As much as anyone, Mrs. Melville understood the excitement, but she also understood that muggles were not as stupid as most wizards supposed they were. She paused as she watched two fly over her head, then glanced to the women poking their heads out of windows, or the children pausing on their way to school to look up and point and discuss. News was flooding. People were contacting each other, loved ones, to tell them the wonderful news. Even though she was not involved in the struggle, Mrs. Melville felt a weight off her shoulders. Being a pureblood living a partial muggle-life put her at risk, definitely.. She had been frightened, but now? She stepped with a light hop in her heel, she smiled with an added brightness, and she was not so scared that her children would grow in a world they could be persecuted in.

So she smiled, when she saw those owls, and she smiled when she saw the muggles, confused as they were, point up at them and whisper to each other. They were safe as much as she was.

The Melvilles spent the majority of the day playing games with one another. They played in the backyard, chasing each other. Mr. Melville had taken it upon himself to tell them the story of how one year old Harry Potter defeated the terrible Dark Lord, You-Know-Who. Of course, most of it was assumption and for show, but it entertained the children, anyway. Even Gillian was fascinated, pulled away from her books to listen in on the story as he told it, and Mrs. Melville bounced little Lyle on her knee as she smiled at her husband's tale.

She had read in the Daily Prophet that Mr. and Mrs. Potter had died. It was a real shame. The couple had been kind, as she heard. She hadn't met the family, but she knew a few people who knew more people, who knew the Potters, and they had been a nice family. And though their child was brilliant enough to defeat the Dark Lord, she hoped he would be raised in a proper home, that treated him like a child, and not a war-hero. Was he not a child? He was a bit over one, and she couldn't imagine if it had been _her _son that had defeated the Dark Lord, at such a young age. What would his siblings have thought? She wasn't sure, but she knew it would be complicated to raise such an important figure. Was he going to family? Did the Potters have any family? Mrs. Melville knew that Mr. Potter was the last in the line, beyond his son, and she didn't know Mrs. Potter's maiden name.. perhaps she had family. Parents, or a sibling.. Or maybe the child would go to a godparent..?

Either way, she hoped he would grow, knowing how heroic his parents had been.

After dinner, the children were put to bed with stories of Harry Potter on their minds. Mrs. Melville sang to her youngest son as she danced with him on her hip, before she put him down to sleep, and exited the room, quiet as she slipped downstairs to join her husband in front of their muggle television (as opposed to a wizard's television,) to watch the very muggle news.

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns." The newscaster then grinned lightly. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," the weatherman Jim began, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Melville tsked as he stared at the television's changing screen, watching the weather pan out through the week. "People should be more careful. I understand celebrating, but the muggles have noticed.. They'll start to wonder, do you think?" But Mrs. Melville disagreed with a shake of her head.

"They'll forget about it in a week when things to back to normal, Richard. We deserve to celebrate after that man was defeated, finally."

"I understand that, but shooting stars? Really? At least do fireworks. People aren't suspicious about fireworks. They just look at their flecks of light and it's all alright. People like fireworks. Thousands of shooting stars is just unnecessary."

"A parade is necessary."

He grunted and they said no more on the subject.

After the program was over, they turned off the television and went up to bed. Mrs. Melville went to the bathroom to take off her make up and jewelry while Mr. Melville sat upon the end of the bed and took off his shoes and socks. He rubbed his sore feet as he chatted and laughed with his wife about that pesky Mrs. Thompson, thinking that her neighbors had murdered their cat in three separate bags. What use was that, they wondered? But bored house wives seemed very imaginative. Probably, as Mr. Melville stated, from those romance novels they clung to when the children napped. Mrs. Melville snorted and chuckled.

They dressed for bed and kissed before turning Mrs. Melville turned her lamp off and curled up to sleep, as Mr. Melville adjusted his glasses and flipped through pages of his book.

He got to sleep around midnight, but not before seeing a flicker of light from his window in the street. Given all the excitement today, however, he thought nothing on it, and simply put his glasses on his bedside table, turned off the lamp, and fell into a very nice sleep.

Unbeknownst to the couple, the dimming of light on their road had been a complete lack of light on Privet Drive. Every streetlamp on the cul de sac flicked off with each click of one Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's charmed cigarette lighter. Privet Drive was sickeningly quiet as the Headmaster discussed sensitive subjects with one Professor Minerva McGonagall, the same of which had been the cat Mrs. Melville had seen earlier that day. If any muggle were to look out upon the pair, they would likely be very, very confused upon seeing them. Professor Dumbledore was an old man with a long, silver beard. He was thin and tall, and wore such odd clothing, for muggles to see – long robes with a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. Even in the dim light, his bright, pale blue eyes sparkled behind half-moon glasses that set upon a crooked nose.

He was a very odd sight to see, no doubt, if anyone beyond Professor McGonagall were to see him.

The cat-turned-woman was stiff and cold, her own glasses matching the marks that had been on the cat's face. Her graying black hair was pulled in a tight bun at the back of her head, and her lips were thin and tight. She, too, wore a cloak, emerald, that would confuse any neighbors on this quiet Privet Drive.

The two discussed together for a good while, changing words, expressions, but they stayed where they were, on the corner of the dull, quiet street. Their voices were not hushed, but were not heard, and the street was still so very quiet. Why were they here? The woman was concerned, but showed it only in the tightness of her brow and lips, as she asked the Headmaster a tiring question. Were the rumors true? Did he know what they were saying, about how the monster was finally defeated? Did he know? When he didn't answer, she expanded. The Potter couple. They're dead. And with a bow of his head, the rumors were confirmed. But how did the child survive? Harry, just a babe. Well, no one knows that, do they? Not even the great Albus Dumbledore.

The man took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very old watch with twelve hands and no numbers; instead, it had little planets moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, however, because he put it back into his pocket and stated, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

Affirmation, though Professor McGonagall did not exactly know _why_, and stated as such. She did not approve of the answer. Dumbledore came to one Privet Drive to bring young hero Harry Potter to his aunt and uncle. A Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, who lived on number four, Privet Drive. Immediately, the woman protested. These people were far from suitable to raise Harry Potter. She'd seen that tyrant son kicking his mother, screaming for sweets. No place for the savior of the wizarding world, certainly. But that was exactly the point for Professor Dumbledore. No child should be famous before they could even walk, even talk, and without a proper argument against that, McGonagall did closed her mouth.

The discussion changed.

Said discussion, however, was quickly quieted when a low rumbling broke the silence around them. It steadily grew louder and the professors looked back and forth on the street for some sign of the vehicle. As it swelled to a roar, they looked _up_ – a large motorcycle fell out of the clouds and landed on the road in front of him. However, large as it was, it did not compare to the man that sat on it. He was perhaps just under twice as large as a normal man. His hair was in tangles, long as his beard, and his brows were heavy. His hands were large, arms were beefy, and tucked between them was a bundle of blankets that pressed against his large chest.

"Hagrid," the old professor breathed in relief. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the man, and he climbed off the motorcycle as carefully as a man of his stature could ever hope to achieve. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

Him, of course, would be young Harry Potter. He was sound asleep in the giant's arms as the adults discussed above him. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of cloth. Inside, hardly visible, little Harry kept sleeping. Under a tuft of dark black hair over his forehead, they could just barely see a curiously shaped cut, jagged, like lightening.

"Is that where –?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," Dumbledore answered. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well – give him here, Hagrid – we'd better get this over with."

The old professor took the child into his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house, but was stopped by Hagrid.

"Could I – could I say goodbye to him, sir?" he asked. He bent his large head over the tiny infant and placed a very scratchy kiss on his forehead. He stood up again, then bumbled into a howled sob, which was quickly hushed by McGonagall.

"You'll wake the muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," the giant sobbed. He took a large handkerchief and buried his face onto it, dabbin at the wet. "But I c-c-can't stand it – Lily an' James dead – an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," her voice was a sharp whisper, as she patted her friend onto his arm. Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall in front of number four, and walked to the front door. He laid harry down onto the doorstep as gently as he could, took the letter he had written to explain things from his cloak, tucked it inside the blankets, then came back to the other two. For a long moment, the three stood still and looked at the child. Hagrid's shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, Professor McGonagall blinked over and over again, and the happy little twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have faded.

"Well," Dumbledore finally broke the silence, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

Hagrid agreed, departed from them after goodbyes to take the motorcycle back to Sirius Black. Wiping his eyes on his jacket sleeve, he swung himself onto the motorcycle, kicked the engine into life, and with a roar, it rose into the air, and off to where it came from.

Dumbledore's farewell to Professor McGonagall was met with a blowing of her nose. He turned and walked back down the street. On the corner, he stopped to take out the charmed lighter from his pocket. He clicked it just once, and the lined lamps snapped back on. Privet Drive glowed in the light, and he could make out that same tabby cat, slinking away from the street. From his position, he could just make out the child he had left on the doorstep.

"Good luck, Harry," he muttered, then turned on his heel and his cloak swished, and he was gone.

A breeze swept and rustled the neat hedges on Privet Drive. The street remained silent, tidy, and calm under the sky that turned slowly from dark to light. Harry Potter squirmed in his sleep, still on that doorstep, one hand closed on the letter Dumbledore had left. He knew nothing but sleep, nothing but innocence. He was no one on the doorstep of number four, Privet Drive. He was not a savior and not a hero. He was an infant, sleeping quietly until Mrs. Dursley screamed him awake as she opened her door, to put out the milk bottles, a scream that was whispered about by neighbors and traveled to the ears of one Mrs. Melville in number twenty-six, Wisteria Walk. The child could not possibly know the stories of him that were already being whispered to children, or the clinks of drinks as the adults whispered their cheers.

"To Harry Potter – the boy-who-lived!"


	2. The Vanishing Glass

A/N: This story closely follows the book, so expect to see the same sorts of paragraphs, conversation, etc.

WARNING: none, right now.

DISCLAIMER: All the characters, but the Melvilles, and the Harry Potter world belong to J.K. Rowling.

Chapter Two

The Vanishing Glass

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on their front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun peeked up on the same tidy yards across the street, lit up the numbers along the houses and mailboxes. On Wisteria Walk, the number twenty-six was hidden from the sun, while the light crept through the back windows, the same way it had been for the last few years, the same way it did the morning that Harry Potter came to number four on the street beside this one. The street called Privet Drive. In the Melville residence, pictures lined the walls of the children, starting with one, then two.. three, four, and finally a fifth child was added to the mix, just a few years after the Dark Lord had fallen. Smiles were filtered onto the papers, a family hugging or candid, showing grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles, none of which lived around them, but visited occasionally.

Mr. Melville woke early in the morning as he always did, and woke up his wife as the sound of water poured into the bedroom, his feet pressing on the tile floor, water rushing at his ears as he washed his hair. He would go to work today. Though the kids could sleep during the summer, he still had to work. Mrs. Melville dressed in a t-shirt and skirt. She pulled up some stockings to her knees, then sneakers onto her feet. She had just finished tying them by the time her husband got out of the shower, drying himself off as he looked for clothes to wear. She stood, gave him a kiss on the cheek, then went downstairs to start breakfast.

The smell of pancakes was enough to get at least Clyde up from bed, and Annabel soon followed. Gillian came down a few minutes after the table was set, with a sleepy Jonah on her hip. She handed the four year old off to her mother the instant she got close enough. Unlike her sister Annabel, and her mother, Gillian's motherly trait was suppressed by being easily irritated by annoying noises.. and a four year old was definitely an annoying noise. Lyle was the only one absent from the table throughout breakfast. A particularly hard sleeper, he didn't hear when his older brother got up from the bed and dressed, or when the toddler exited the room. He simply rolled over on the bottom bunk in the first bedroom on the second floor. Clyde had the top bunk, as always, and the toddler had a bed opposite of theirs.

After breakfast, Clyde came back upstairs, grabbing a pillow from his bunk, and thwacking it against the side of his little brother's ginger head. The child whined and pulled his blanket over his eyes, rejecting the light that was leaking in through the windows.

"Oy, get up, will you?" the teenager sighed, tossed his pillow up onto his bed.

"Go 'way," came the grumbled response.

"Mum says to get up, or you have to do the dishes."

That got a response. Lyle shoved his blankets off and rolled out of bed as quickly as he possibly could, snatching a pair of trousers from an open drawer in his dresser and shoving them onto his legs. If one thing could get him out of bed, it was the fear of doing chores. Of course he did do chores when he was told to, but he wasn't even awake for breakfast. That was hardly fair. Amused, Clyde watched from his bunk, flipping through a magazine halfheartedly. He tossed it to the end of his bed, rolled onto his side to look down at the boy as he tried to dress quickly.

"That shirt's dirty."

Lyle gave him a glance, then looked down at the stained shirt, before taking it off, and going for another one.

"That one, too."

The action repeated.

"So's that one."

Now it was just annoying. Lyle scowled, looked down at the shirt, but, finding no stain, decided to wear it anyway, and trudged out the door, grumbling to himself about laundry days and juice stains, which then lead to a tangent about juice that carried on to the living room. Clyde stopped listening by then, and resumed his spot on his bunk, reading the magazine he'd been eying earlier.

Downstairs, Lyle grabbed a pancake and slapped some peanut butter on it, before he rolled it up and took a bite. Mrs. Melville was still trying to get Jonah to eat a full pancake, though the child would not have such a notion. He refused, huffed, crossed his arms, and shouted 'no' upon 'no'. Frustrated, Mrs. Melville sighed, told the child he could go play, and started to clean up the kitchen. Lyle stayed, watching Annabel play in the living room with Jonah. She had a nice time, hiding behind the couch, then jumping out at him, causing him to squeal and flail, then run to try to catch her. It was a usual game that Lyle had no interest in anymore, so eventually, he just looked back to his mum.

"I need to go out and do some shopping. Annabel's staying here and watching Jonah. If you go to a friend's house, could you _tell _someone this time?" Mrs. Melville glanced back at Lyle.

The child had a habit of going off to friend's houses around the neighborhood and forgetting to tell anyone where he was going. It had more than once started a ruckus in the home, and gotten him grounded thereafter. By now, they'd come to expect it. The child didn't exactly have the best memory or courtesy.. or filter, but that was a different matter entirely. Lyle grunted in acknowledgement, but didn't say anything. Most of his friends were busy today, except for one, one in particular.

Harry Potter started going to his primary school the same time he did, but the two had met before then. Mrs. Dursley was certainly not friends with Mrs. Melville. They acknowledged each other, and often had the same friends, but were not friends themselves. Still, it was hard not to notice the sudden appearance of a small, black-haired boy, with that famed scar upon his forehead. When Mrs. Melville asked about him, Mrs. Dursley had coldly quipped that his no-good mother died in an accident and left her with the child, no doubt to turn out as worthless as that husband of her's. Surprised, Mrs. Melville hadn't pushed the issue, but insisted on playdates between Lyle and Mrs. Dursley's child, Dudley, and insisted, as well, that Harry join them. Reluctantly, the horse-faced woman had agreed.

Lyle had known him since then, and though his father continued to tell the stories, he no longer had as much interest in them as he did when he was younger. Harry Potter was scrawny. His arms were thin, his clothes were large and rotting, and his hair was a mess. But that didn't mean the ginger didn't like him. Quite the opposite. He adored the raven-haired fiend. It was that blasted cousin that he couldn't stand. If there was one thing in the world he hated more than juice stains, it was Dudley Dursley. He was a fat, spoiled, manipulative little cry-baby, and Lyle made it his job to get back at him bullying Harry all the time, by spreading little rumors around the school. Simple things, but enough that, beyond his small gang, he didn't have any sort of friends at school, and even his gang snickered behind his back at the rumors going around, except the ones that involved them, of course.

By the time Lyle was paying attention to his surroundings, his mother had moved to the living room to grab her bag and instruct Annabel like she always did, about numbers to call and things to do in emergencies. You would think by now she would have learned it by heart. She had. The woman simply didn't realize that. Soon, she was gone, and the noise of playing resumed. Lyle went to the door, grabbed his shoes from the closet and slipped them on.

"Goin' out!"

He waited to hear an "okay!" in reply before he exited the home, moving passed the small stone wall of his home, and over to number four, Privet Drive.

The Dursley residence was always very prim and proper, with excellently maintained gardens and a manicured yard. The hedges were just perfect and the house always looked freshly painted, no sign of wear or weather. Inside, as Lyle well knew, was just the same. It was perfect. The floors and the chimney were swept, the shelves were dusted, the dishes were clean, and everything was pristine and crisp and clean and _perfect. _To be completely, Lyle couldn't stand it. His mum always gushed at how clean they kept the house, which meant more chores for him when he got home, which was never enjoyable. The only thing his mum didn't like about the home, besides the majority of the occupants, were the photos. She had asked once why there weren't pictures of Harry around, but with the clipped answer that the boy didn't enjoy taking pictures, she had thought better of pushing the idea.

If it wasn't legally kidnapping, she would have taken the kid from that home long ago.

Lyle knocked against the proper door with his small knuckles and shifted from foot to foot as he waited the usual, short period before it was opened. It was always about the same.. Five to ten seconds, as they were usually not right at the door, and even if they were, he knew for a fact they generally yelled at Harry to open it. He wasn't so lucky this time.

He deflated just a tiny bit as Mrs. Dursley answered the door instead, and she seemed just as disappointed as he was. Her smile tightened a bit, pursed and unwilling.

"Oh. Hello, Lyle. Where is your mother?"

Lyle grinned lightly. "Shopping.. I was just going to.." he peeked into the home, specifically at the sniffling Dudley and the mound of presents. "Wish Dud's a happy birthday."

That seemed to do the trick. At least, Mrs. Dursley stopped looking like she was sucking on a lemon.

"Oh! Well, then, come inside!"

Thank God. Lyle stepped inside the home and he heard the door shut behind him. He smiled as he approached Dudley Dursley. The mini-whale's face was some mixture of red and blue, like he'd been hiccuping and holding his breath at the same time, difficult, he knew. He had seen the 'fake crying' bit before, and he knew the face after it. It was much the same.

"Happy Birthday, Duds. I don't have a gift yet; I'll get you one soon, though."

The idiot returned the gesture with a 'thanks'. How annoying.. He didn't want to waste money on it, of course. He'd likely just find an old game around the house and regift it. He'd be none the wiser. No, seriously.. the brat was an idiot. Harry, he noted, was also in the room, and he gave him a glance and a grin. Now, Harry, he could stand. But Dudley? Fucking hell. Mr. Dursley was almost worse, though. Just looking at him made _Lyle _feel like he was going to have a heart attack. He refused to even think of the couple producing a _child_, much less what they did currently. He nearly shuddered.

While he and Dudley made small talk, Mr. Dursley had gone to speak in low voices with his wife until the phone rang from the kitchen. Mrs. Dursley went to fetch it, and Lyle kept an ear out as she spoke. Mrs. Polkiss. Piers' mum? He didn't know why, but he didn't ask. He glanced at Harry, but he didn't seem to know, either, just sort of kept to the back, away from the chatting children and the tub of lard the poor kid had to call an uncle. Lyle didn't know how he did it.

Not long after, Mrs. Dursley came back into the room.

"That was Mrs. Polkiss. It seems Piers has been running a fever.."

There was a stiff silence as the family waited for the tantrum that was sure to come.. but in the presence of Lyle, Dudley stuffed it inside and gripped his fists.

"But _mum_,"

"I know, Dudders, b-but.. Look, Lyle's here! Don't you like Lyle? We could take him to the zoo, if it's alright with his mother?"

Oh shit. Lyle blinked a moment when the attention shifted, hesitated. "I.. well, she's.. out, but I told my sister I'd be out, so I'm.. sure it's fine, Mrs. Dursley." Was that the right answer? Bloody, stop staring! And so they did, and before Lyle knew what was really going on, he was in the back of the Dursley's car, sitting in the middle between Harry and Dudley, on the way to the zoo. He suspected the couple would pay for him, since they hadn't asked about it, but he did have five dollars in his pocket. Was that enough? No, probably not. He glanced at Harry, but the two didn't say anything for a while.

As they drove, Mr. Dursley was complaining to Mrs. Dursley about something Lyle wasn't quite paying attention to. He had driven with the Dursleys before, for the occasional carpooling, and had learned long ago to just not pay attention. It was much easier not to get annoyed with the idiots if he didn't pay attention to them, right? That seemed logical, and Lyle did enjoy logic. He hated being in the middle seat, however. With no window to stare out, he just stared straight ahead, which for a taller person would generally mean the windshield, but for Lyle, it meant staring at Mr. Dursley's arm, which wasn't an enjoyable sight at all. Of all the things to stop his boredom, he found that Harry was it. After a long silence, he joined in a conversation with his aunt and uncle by saying something simply offhandedly, and rather odd, which was, as they knew, not something to do.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," the brunette stated absently. "It was flying."

Mr. Dursley didn't find this nearly as interesting as Lyle, and nearly crashed into the car in front of him. Lyle tensed as the lard of a man turned in his seat, pointing a sausage-shaped finger at Harry, and yelled, his face red: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Dudley snickered.

Lyle remained very, very tense.

"I know they don't," answered Harry. "It was only a dream."

After that, the car was more silent than it had been before, besides Dudley's snickers. Lyle was having a hard time recovering. He hated yelling.. loud noises in general, really. They made him tense and stiff and he hated _that _even more, but when Mr. Dursley did it, it was even worse. The man was so large, it was hard not to think that he would just snap and murder you, likely by sitting on them. As the ride continued, and Lyle began to calm, he glanced at the dejected Harry, and nudged him, trying at a smile.

It seemed hard for him to return it, but Lyle was satisfied by the faint flicker of the boy's lips.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Lyle large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. Lyle felt guilty, but he had learned a while ago to shove it away around the Dursleys. He nibbled his ice cream and gave Harry a grin, who seemed more than happy for the ice pop, as they watched a gorilla scratch its head. With a glance, the two small boys inaudibly agreed that the oaf looked a lot like Dudley, beyond the color of fur.

So far, the day wasn't too bad. Lyle wasn't the largest fan of zoos, but not for such a righteous reason as some, like that the animals in cages made them sad or something. No, he just generally got a sunburn whenever he went, and he doubted today would be any different. Still, he liked to see Harry enjoy himself for once, and it was better than spending a lazy Saturday back at home, doing nothing but bicker with siblings, or read, or, even worse, play with his little brother. The kid was fine, he guessed, but he couldn't handle him as well as his sister could. He let her deal with him.

They ate in the zoo restaurant, which had some witty little name that Lyle didn't care to remember for more than five seconds, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, Mr. Dursley bought him another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first, after Lyle had declined. He didn't know how these people ate so much, Harry obviously excluded. He knew he was a 'growing boy,' but he certainly couldn't eat half of the food that they insisted he get. His stomach simply didn't want it, and he had no inclination to force his stomach to enlarge, as Dudley seemed to have accomplished.

After lunch, they went to the reptile house, which Lyle did _not _want, but went along with. It was cool and dark, and he watched the windows with unease, his shoulders bunched up and tensed. He was fine with the lizards. He liked the lizards, but the snakes were too much. He hated them, quite simply, even behind thick glass that he comforted himself with knowing that they couldn't get through. He shuffled a bit closer Harry, but tried desperately to not look like a terrified, for lack of a better term, girl. Dudley wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. The bastard quickly found the largest snake in the place, which the family just _had _to pause to look at, because the idiot was so fascinated.

The snake was indeed, very large, and Lyle could see that _perfectly _fine from his safe distance of ten or so feet, refusing to come any closer to it. The thing could have wrapped its body twice around the car they were just inside of, and crushed it into a trash cube – but at the moment, it seemed like it was sleeping, which Lyle hoped meant that they would move on soon, because he really didn't want to see what it was like awake.

Dudley stood with his short nose pressed against the glass, staring at the coils.

"Make it move," he whined, like some three year old, and Mr. Dursley tapped on the glass. The menace of a snake didn't even budge.

"Do it again," the brat ordered. Mr. Dursley rapped the glass shortly with his knuckles, but the snake still refused to move. Lyle was starting to ease. Just let the thing _sleep_.

"This is boring," and he shuffled away.

Lyle nearly followed quickly behind, but Harry hadn't moved, and he didn't want to leave him behind, as he knew the family would do, without a notice. He stood stiffly beside a lizard tank, giving the occasional apology as people tried to shuffle to see it, but he didn't move much beyond that point. Why wasn't he moving away? The thing was asleep, wasn't it? So just leave already. But it wasn't asleep, actually. It was moving now, and Lyle felt himself tense even more. It's head was larger than his own. That was _not _okay. How could that be okay? Why was Harry looking at a thing that big? Sure tigers were big, too, but at least they were fluffy and not poisonous. Snakes made people die _slowly_. At least tigers had the propriety of making things die quickly.

He couldn't really see what was going on, and he didn't bother watching much. He glanced around, looked and watched the people, and specifically the Dursleys so he wouldn't get left behind with Harry. Dudley had wandered back to the snake area, and shouted, very loudly, for his dad to come look at the snake. He punched Harry away to get closer, and the small brunette fell to the cold concrete. Lyle twitched, but he'd be alright. He hadn't—was that screaming?

He snapped his eyes back.

The glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The large beast was uncoiling itself quickly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits. Lyle had half the mind to go with them, but he found himself just crawling quickly onto a bench and pressing himself to the glass as he watched the snake slither swiftly passed Harry, then out. Lyle was paler than he usually was, which was certainly saying something, and he shook, but the odder thing, to him.. was that the thing didn't attack anyone.

The keeper of the reptile house was in some shape of shock.

"But the glass," he kept repeating, "where did the glass go?"

The zoo director himself made Mrs. Dursley a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Dudley could only stutter words that made no sense. Lyle was just quiet, glancing occasionally at Harry, the last one he'd seen around the snake in the first place.. the one interacting with it. It was weird, wasn't it? Even for a wizard. The snake hadn't attacked anyone around Lyle, as far as he knew, and he was pretty sure he knew that rather well, though it did snap at the occasional heel, almost like a sort of amusement. Back in Mr. Dursley's car, Dudley was convinced it had nearly taken off his leg, which Lyle didn't think was true. Snakes didn't generally go after buffalo, did they?

The Dursleys dropped him off at home. His mother was there when he pushed open the door, and he took off his shoes at the entrance.

"Where have you been?" The question was terse. She'd probably been at the empty number four after coming home to find him absent once again. But at least he had told someone he'd be out this time, right? Which meant no extra chores. At least, he hoped so.

"The zoo, with the Dursleys. It was Dudley's birthday," he answered lightly.

She blinked, then frowned.

"And Harry?"

"He came with us."

Dinner was going to be ready soon, as well as he could smell it. It smelled like chicken.. He was still, however, trying to shake the feeling of fear that damned snake had instilled into him, and he plopped on to the couch, stiffly.

"That's nice."

She went back to the kitchen and Lyle remained quiet. Clyde set the table for dinner, with minimal help from Gillian. Lyle wasn't much help at all, and just went around putting the ice in cups for tea or water, whichever they wanted, but he didn't get the liquids themselves. There was no way he was taking orders, and his mum always liked to set pitchers of the two choices out onto the table, anyway, just so they could get refills, too. It was simpler.

During the course of dinner, he listened to his siblings talk about their days. His mum asked the older three about how their homework was going, and they answered, and they talked about things in school, and things they were excited about, and plans they had with friends over the summer. Lyle was quiet until asked about _his_ day, to which he paused a few moments, glass of tea in his hand. He considered all the things he could have said about the day, the good things and the bad. The yelling Mr. Dursley, the odd snake, the food, the whining, or his own fear. He decided against those.

"Harry set a boa loose in the Reptile House and nearly made Dudley piss his pants."

That topped them all.


End file.
